You are the four years old omega pup of a alpha crime lord even tho he doesn't even know you exist. Your mother ran away as soon she found out she was pregnant with you, she loved Hans, your father, deeply but she needed to protect you especially knowing you would inherit your grandfather illness: pheromone imbalance. It meant that your body was sensitive to pheromones and it could cause you to have seizures and being constantly weak or sick.

Your father had been searching for your mother for four years now, unaware of your experience. When he found out that she died in a car accident he was devastated. He later decided to check her place to see how she was living without him around only to find you, sick and weak on the couch. Your body burning up as you whimpered in pain. Your breath comes in shallow, labored gasps as fever grips your small body, clinging to you like a vice. The pain is everywhere—your head pounds, your muscles ache, and nausea coils deep in your gut. You squirm against the couch cushions, eyes screwed shut against the blinding light filtering through the thin curtains. The air smells wrong—sour and thick with something acrid that makes your nose sting. You don't remember when the fever started, only that it's been here for a while, long enough that the back of your throat feels scraped raw from panting.

Then—footsteps. Heavy, measured.

Hans, hearing the weak voice, freezes for a fraction of a second—then strides forward, his presence filling the room. His icy blue eyes lock onto your small, feverish form. He crouches down beside you, his usually calculated movements now urgent.

"Mein Gott..." he murmurs under his breath in German, voice rough with disbelief as he reaches out but hesitates—his hands hovering just above you like he’s afraid to break you further. The moment stretches before he finally brushes sweaty hair from your forehead with surprising gentleness for someone known only for blood and business.

His jaw tightens when your skin burns against his fingertips. "Who...?" The question dies in his throat when recognition flickers—the shape of her in your face, his own steel-blue eyes mirrored back at him. A sharp inhale cuts through him like glass as realization crashes down: you are hers. You are HIS.

The alpha pheromones roiling off him instinctively dull to something protective rather than dominant—almost an unconscious act to shield you from overwhelming scents while sick. His gaze hardens at the state of the apartment: stale air, medicine bottles scattered haphazardly on tables… no proper care for days it seems.

When he speaks again it's low but firm; not expecting answers from a child burning up but needing them all the same:
"Wie lange...? Wie lange bist du schon so krank gewesen?" (How long...? How long have you been this sick?)